


The Art of Quid Pro Quo

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: if you stare long enough you may catch a glimpse of joan x vera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9490400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Quid Pro Quo is a legal service that becomes an equivalent exchange. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Governor Vera Bennett keeps this in mind the moment her hand lingers over the handle to the interrogation door. There's a few tricks up her sleeve, but this isn't chess. Nor is it a gamble. She's dealing with Joan Ferguson. [ A possible outcome for S5. Previous season spoilers a plenty! ]





	

**Author's Note:**

> I may continue this though I'm not entirely sure. This came to me while daydreaming excessively. We all know how Bea becomes a martyr thus throwing Ferguson back into Wentworth's timeless loop. So, what if this were a possible outcome for Season 5? For Vera, the current governor, to gamble with someone as dangerous and cunning as Joan?

Linda Miles stands by the door, one hand clasped over her wrist. She wears a sly look. There's something about Miles that reminds you of a cat who's got its cream. A heavy wad of cash in her pocket from a prisoner would tell you as much. Everyone has their vices and virtues. She stands guard by the interrogation glass that shows a lonely figure at metal table, waiting patiently for this game of chess to begin.

The click of heels signify the arrival of Governor Vera Bennett. She's chosen a pair of slacks, ignoring the restrictions of the skirts she once wore. She wets her lip, a sort of nervous habit that plagues her even now. She nods to Miles; Miles nods back. Unspoken communication is key in a facility like this. The body makes its own music and asserts power in the littlest of ways. She's learned this now.

There is a conversation that Vera has recited in her head over and over again. It goes as followed:  _You will comply to our demands. You will go into protective custody. Cease and desist contact with all prisoners--_ It loops in her head, a constant track so she will not forget. Why, she even went so far as to write the key points on index cards. When she felt confident enough, she left them behind on her kitchen counter. Now, her tongue feels thick and dry. Heavy in her mouth.

With a sigh, she opens the door. Closes her eyes for but a moment. Joan knows. It's in the slight curve of her lips, as though Vera's little dance makes for a classical score. Her hair's brushed back into an immaculate ponytail, steel grey running through the temples, speaking of wisdom and grace. Her blood-stained clothing (now hailed as case evidence) has been exchanged for a prison uniform. 

Vera sits opposite of that woman who has earned a morally reprehensible reputation. There was something lost between them.  _Something_ though Vera wasn't quite sure what it was. The folder in her arms now rests on that flat, gleaming surface. Joan's hawkish eyes flit to the documents, pondering its contents.

This is how she takes her time. No pleasantries. She's learned that kindness will buy you nothing but a thorn in your side. No “hello” or “how are you doing?” is offered up. It's a game of chess, Vera reminds herself, before steeling her spirit and silently willing for her fingers to cease their trembling. She opens the folder, lashes fluttering, her eyes meeting the repeat offer. It's startling, looking into Joan's depths, and seeing nothing. Nothing save for darkness to swallow up the pain. Psychopathy must have a root somewhere.

Governor Bennett slides the photographs across the table with a half-smile. They detail Ferguson's apartment consumed by chaos. This is not Vera's fault. It might as well be, but it's Joan's temporary emotional weakness. Jianna's son was her crutch and this is how he repays her: in wreckage, in ruin, in destruction. Joan looks ready to wrap her fingers around Vera's bird-like neck. A panic manifests itself within. A nead to clean. To purge. To organize. To fix the chaos. To control.

There's something feral about Joan, a wolverine glimmer in her razorsharp eyes. She drags her nails – her good hand – across the table. Her burns, Vera noted, are still being treated. The beige arm guard covers the scars, but it will never conceal the ones that twist Joan's heart into something black and ugly.

“You will fix this.”

Vera Bennett parts her lips. She nods, but not to agree. Almost, just almost, she dares to say “right away, guv'na.” It doesn't come out. Nothing does save for bated breath. She shoots her a look with her bright blue eyes that have been hardened by the job.

_ You don't own me. _

In order to avoid touching the inmate, Vera clasps her hands together. No matter how much her bleeding heart aches, she will not touch the detested Joan Ferguson. She cannot. Oh, she wants to. Wants to rest a hand on that stoic woman's shoulder and say, “it's okay to fall apart; we all do.” It doesn't come out. Kindness is a charade that won't work with Joan.

“I won't,” Vera responds.

Joan's burning on a stake of her own self-righteousness and it pains Vera to see it. Her collar feels like a noose hugging her throat. She grimaces. Ferguson's breathing comes out much too sharp. You can practically feel the tension in the ear, as cutting as Bea's knife. As penetrative as that shiv in the Top Dog's gut and it twists deeper inside. Now, Joan squirms. Just barely. It's enough to vouch for her humanity.

“I require your full cooperation. These women want to kill you. You took away their _order_. Their top dog, Ferguson. They will want retribution for Bea Smith.”

Stress has carved more lines into Vera's face. She grinds her teeth too hard. Joan smiles when she hears it. Sees it. Hopes that Vera hurts as much as her dear Jianna has. They all deserve to suffer here in this prison. She won't rest until they do. Even then, rest is an unwelcome reprieve when you're wed to diligence. Her nails embed themselves in her palm, leaving crescent moons behind. She wants to rip the photos to shreds. Instead, she flips them over in a neat, uniform pile. Tidy things up.

“I can remedy that,” Joan counters.  
She's no stranger to the art of negotiation. She's waiting for the pieces to come together. Waiting for Vera to fold. To put her queen on the wrong block at the wrong time. Exasperated, Governor pinches the bridge of her nose. She's tired of these petty games.

“They hate you. You're single-handedly the most despised woman in this entire facility.”

“And do you hate me Vera? Do you despise me as much as you did your mother? By all means, prove me wrong.”

Delusions of grandeur veil this truth. Joan offers a ghost of a smile with an arrogant, little head bob. It catches Vera off-guard. She fails to pay any mind to Westfall's advice. In that moment, she becomes the mouse she was when the Fixer – the  _Freak_ – first arrived. Wide-eyed and stupefied, she's caught in the headlights. Blinking several times, her mouth opens and closes reminding Joan of her goldfish gasping for air.

“... No. No, Joan. I don't. I can't.”

Vera attempts to humanize the leviathan at her interrogation table. She calls her by her first name. It sounds like taboo rolling off her tongue, a type of obscenity that you cannot take back once you dare utter it.

“\--But we're not here to discuss my feelings. This isn't therapy. This is a negotiation.”

She steels herself, sits straighter (taller) in that uncomfortable, rickety chair. She closes her mouth, mulling over how to propose protective custody once more. Joan is almost impressed and orchestrates for the Governor to sing, her wrist uplifted and her hand open. She's the maestro here and Vera's the instrument playing along.

 


End file.
